Grace would have the star's room, of course. She wasn't a star yet, but Neuerman was featuring her name in all the advertising. That would naturally entitle her to the star's room. That would be the end room with the outside light. The door was ajar. It was a large room. Yes, he could see her first act frock, over a chair. And Minna, the maid who had been with her when--when he and she had been on rather good terms, very good terms--was sitting quietly by the dresser, sewing. Minna was a discreet little person. She had carried notes and things. Still, it was awkward. He would prefer not having Minna see him just now.... He _was_ weak. He found it necessary to catch at the iron stair rail and steady himself... Grace, you had to admit, was a good deal of a girl. It was rather remarkable, considering her hard life, the work, the travel, the--well, the one or two experiences--how fresh she looked, how young, how full of magnetic charm. Why, Grace was twenty-eight if she was a day! But she was putting the play over in great style. You had to admire her for that. It was too bad, thinking it all ever, that their relations hadn't gone quietly along on a friendly basis, that emotions should have torn her so, intensifying her demands on him, making it really necessary for him to break off with her. He plunged into the dressing-room. CHAPTER XL--HIS UNCONQUERABLE SOUL |THE maid, Minna, sprang up, dropping her sewing and giving a throaty little shriek. Peter, steadying himself with an effort, softly closed the doer, leaned back against it, and frowned. “Good God!” he said, “don't scream like that! They'll hear you clear to Fiftieth Street.” The girl had staggered back against the wall, was supporting herself there with outspread hands. “Mr. Mann--you frightened me! And--and--” Her eyes wandered from his white face to his shirt-front. That had been white. It was now spotted red with blood. He stared down at it, fascinated. “Please, Mr. Mann, will you lie down?” She hurried to clear a heap of garments off the sofa: then she took his arm and steadied him as he walked across the room. “You won't let me call a doctor, Mr. Mann?” “Oh, no! Don't call anybody! Keep your head shut.” “But--but--” “Here, help me with these studs.” “You'd better take your coat off first, sir.” She helped him get it off; unbuttoned his waistcoat; untied his white bow. He had to unbutton the collar himself, holding all the while to his folded envelope. “It's astonishing how weak I am--” “Oh, Mr. Mann, you're bleeding to death!” The girl began weeping. “I'm not bleeding to death! That's nonsense! Don't you talk like that to me--keep your head shut! It's nothing at all. I'll be all right. Just a few minutes.” “Oh, Mr. Mann--” Peter glanced nervously toward the door. “Shut up!” he whispered huskily. She got the studs out of his shirt, and opened it. Beneath, his singlet was dripping red. She drew in a spasmodic long breath, with a whistling sound.